


Orguialz

by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach (Llwyden)



Category: Arthurian Legend
Genre: F/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwyden/pseuds/Llwyden%20ferch%20Gyfrinach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Arthur is in Lorraine, Mordred comes to a realization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orguialz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zorrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorrie/gifts).



> I based this most closely on the versions of the characters and events in the _Alliterative Morte Arthure_. It's a fun version if you read Middle English (or can find a good translation).
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta Moebius!

"He is not the king I gave my heart to." Her voice breaks as she speaks the words. In a whisper, though there's no-one else to hear. None of the knights would presume to invade the queen's chamber, nor to intrude upon her councils with the Regent. It is their one time of solace and comfort.

"No." Mordred agrees. He buries his nose in her hair, holding her close, sharing her fear as much as her passion. He never wanted this responsibility, pleaded with his uncle to choose another, but the king's judgment would not be swayed. He has done his best to honour his office and govern the kingdom wisely. He has learned to steel his heart as a ruler must, to show mercy when it is warranted and justice when it is needed. He's learned many things he thought he would never need know, and some he never wanted to. Throughout it all, Arthur the king has been his beacon and exemplar; he once despaired of ever being worthy of his trust.

But something has happened. The man who appointed him despite his protestations, who stood fast against the Romans and defended his people against their incursions, would never have dreamed of attacking Lorraine, of burning her halls to the ground and oppressing her people. Yet the honour-bound prisoners in the court tell stories of horrors perpetrated upon them. Horrors the Arthur he loved would never have countenanced.

"What has happened to bring him to this?" She turns tearful eyes on him, and he reaches up his hand, brushes the salty dampness from her eyes with his thumb, kisses her forehead. He has no answer.

After long moments, he shakes his head. "Cador leads many with incautious hearts. Perhaps he has won Arthur's ear for the moment. But the king will rein them in. Perhaps he does not yet know what they do; he will discover and put it to rights. It will not last."

Her laughter is bitter. "You do not believe that, my lord. Or you would not be here."

He cannot answer that, either; she is right and she knows it. Pale and soft as her flesh is, intoxicating as he finds her beauty, she is Queen. No simple physical temptation could have enticed him to her bed.

"Yet though it would mean my death at the king's return, I would rather you were proven wrong." He rests his head on her breast, his arms wrapping around her. She is warm and comforting, and she loves and mourns the man as much as he.

She sighs. "As would I, my lord."

"We must send one that we can trust, to ascertain the truth." He sets his jaw, determined. "We must know if there is a way to temper him yet."

"Send who you will from among my knights." She holds him close. "There are none I do not trust." There is a yearning in her voice that he cannot blame her for; indeed, he shares it. "Perhaps they will find the king come to himself already."

"Let us pray they do, my lady." He brushes her hair from her face, kisses her cheek. "And if they do not?"

She shakes her head. "They must!"

He simply looks at her, and this time it is her eyes that drop first.

"If they do not," she reluctantly concedes, "what then do you think to do?"

Mordred looks down, taking her hand, wrapping her strong, delicate fingers in his own. "If the king cannot be recalled to himself, then he must be stopped, for the good of the people and the land." He looks her in the eye, soberly. When he speaks, the words are dragged from deep within. "We must stop him."

She makes a small noise of distress, but not of surprise.

It is treason, of course, even to think such a thing. His heart breaks within him to speak it aloud. What are they contemplating?

* * *

He sits in the chamber that should be the king's; he watches as his emissary strides from the room. _Call the man what he is,_ he thinks. _Your spy._ The people of Lorraine are bleeding; not only her knights, but her serfs and freemen and women. Many crops have been destroyed, and the winter will be hard. Churches have been ransacked, their treasures plundered and their walls razed. Families are without homes, children without parents. And at the forefront of the fray, not Cador, nor even Gawain, but Arthur. There can be no doubt - all of this is at his command. Lorraine is his, at such a cost, and he is looking further. And there is rumour the Romans are looking toward Britain again, emboldened by the king's overreaching grasp.

_Why?_ he wants to cry. _My lord, what is the reason for this madness?_ But it is catching, perhaps, this pride; he sits straighter in his chair and eyes the higher one on the dais above him, and he thinks, _I could do better._ He curses the evil angel that brings that thought, but once with him, it will not leave. _Britain cannot long stand this rule. And who is the king's lawful choice to stand for the kingdom's best interests?_

He stands slowly, cautiously, and eyes that throne. Does he dare?

"My lord."

She stands there, a bundle in her hands; it might almost be a baby. But no - their children - the children he begat on her that her husband could not - are far away. Secreted against the intrigues of the court, their midwife and nursemaid sworn to silence. They are children that should not exist, not with Arthur still cutting his swath through the continent. But she wished them, and he hoped for the joy and legitimacy they might bring, despite the betrayal he knows they represent.

She comes slowly closer, her face filled with grief, yet proud. "I heard, my lord." She nods at the door through which her knight left. "I think this now must needs be yours." She holds out the cloth-swaddled object, pulling back the silk to reveal a sword. _His_ sword, the silver emblem of all he holds.

Mordred's heart skips a beat. It is real, then. They are doing this. A core of uncertainty haunts him, but he pushes it away. A king can afford no such qualms. Their lord has already betrayed their trust and that of their people. And the silver is bright with riches and promise.

He reaches out and grasps it, standing straight. He nods at her and slowly mounts the steps. "Call in your knights, my lady."


End file.
